


marks

by Arejare



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Body Positivity, Body Worship, M/M, soft, stretch marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23358457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arejare/pseuds/Arejare
Summary: Crowley marvels over the hidden secrets of Aziraphale
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 45





	marks

**Author's Note:**

> My brain started to yell bad things again at me and I decided the best way to stop it, is to write something that put the issue in perspective - in Crowley's when it comes to his angel.

Crowley’s finger followed slowly the opaque rivers of traces, one by one. Some were wide, rippled riverbeds others barely visible, only in the right angle.

The angle was crucial.

When he tilted his head to one side, they became shadows, ghosting over the pale grounds and he could sense their depths. At some points they were so many, he could barley differentiate what was low and what was high, mingled indistinguishable into each other. Only the soft touch of his fingertip whispered the secret of their positions. Tilting his head into another angle, he found beautiful rivers of light, gently shimmering in the early morning sun. They crossed the blue and teal streams, hidden beneath them, sometimes making those lines gleam in faint silver. Tracking the rippled rivers with his fingers, he could feel how soft, _oh_ , so soft they were! Clouds bedded in dawn, shimmering silk pillowed in smooth, almost white velvet!

Crowley traced them all. Every single one, every ever so hidden!

And he loved them all.

He couldn’t believe his luck (prayed, yes, **prayed**!) that he was allowed to see them so close, long centuries after he spotted them for the first time. For millennia all he had were stolen glimpses. He never dared to think of them, to dream of them, following, like he did now. A forbidden landscape of hidden rivers, telling stories in their wake.

But now, they lie before him. Languish lines; following secret hints to were they had to make their way. Soft bows, fanning out into deltas of smaller and disconnected rivulets. Clear, wide lines, circling like clouds in a whirlwind, spiralling down, down into clandestine depths…  
The ground under his fingertips quivered.

  
And, oh yes, some were ticklish!

  
“Crowley, dearest, what are you doing?”  
“Listening to your stories.”  
“But you know my stories.”  
“Other stories, angel. Stories, carved in flesh with the claws of time and of joy, stories of shame and hiding and opening and acceptance. Terrible, beautiful secrets.”  
Crowley could hear the angel gulp heavily.  
“Come…”

Hands guided him back up until his eyes were level with the angel’s. He leant his forehead against Aziraphale’s, basking in the feeling of being so close to his angel ( **his**!) and losing himself in the plush softness underneath (and under it strong, knowing muscles, another secret, hidden and only revealed to him) and even softer look in the eyes before him, barley concealing the truth of their being and not hiding at all the pure, almost frightfully intense love shining through them.  
Love, so willingly given, so bright and clear, especially from an angel, can be terrifying. But not here, not, when directed at him. Crowley can take it. He **want** it, accept it willingly and isn’t shy to give all his own love back, knowing, it will be accepted as eagerly as he did the angel’s.  
And they had time.

All the time in the world.

And beyond.


End file.
